


Return

by JulyStorms



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always comes back for him. But that's not what he wants: not anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

**Author's Note:**

> Title sort of came about because of the song "I Will Always Return" by Bryan Adams.
> 
> _I've seen every sunset, and with all that I've learned  
>  Oh, it's to you I will always, always return._

In a twisted sort of way, Marlowe came to appreciate the fight he’d had with Hitch. He held onto the memory and turned it over in his mind in spare moments, usually at night when sleep refused to come. He’d never had trouble sleeping before. She’d laugh at him if she knew, if she could see it.

But she couldn’t see it.

She didn’t know.

She never would.

And that was satisfying.

* * *

 

She’d cried during the fight. That was the part of it he knew he’d never forget. It was the only time she’d ever cried in front of him, had ever let herself openly show her emotions like that. At the time he’d suspected she was doing it on purpose.

But later, far too late, he realized she probably hadn’t _let_ herself cry: it was much more likely that she hadn’t been able to prevent it from happening. She’d been overwhelmed. He could still remember the details of the discussion-turned-argument: her voice had been too high and strained, hands flighty, and her teeth scraped too hard against her lower lip when she listened to him talk.

He ought to have known right away that she was only afraid for him, but he’d been upset and hurt; his perception had been skewed—clouded.

Her tears had meant nothing at the time, but hindsight reminded him that they had come unchecked, as if she hadn’t any fight left in her to keep them at bay.

Eventually the feelings of guilt and regret that the memory stirred up began to lessen.

After all, it was hard to regret a decision that had already hurt her, but would ultimately protect her.

* * *

 

He missed her. The feeling came on the heels of guilt and regret, when they were both fresh and new, and Jean and the others were still ribbing him relentlessly about his fight with Hitch in an attempt to get him to apologize.

There were gaps in the world he’d grown used to, made worse by his decision to transfer to another military branch alone. He sat with acquaintances in the mess hall, but it didn’t feel right. There was something lacking.

He ought not to have missed Hitch’s elbow in his side while he was trying to eat, but he did.

Or at least, he missed the expectedness of it.

And a lot of other little things. They should not have meant anything to someone like him, yet they did. They meant far too much.

* * *

 

Connie spoke to him the night before the 58th Expedition, expression serious despite the fact that he was hanging over the edge of his bunk, shirt falling forward along with the rest of him.

“You should write to her,” was all he said, but something about the way he said it stuck with Marlowe, kept him from sleeping until he got up and did it. It was ridiculous, really: there wouldn’t even be time to send it out in the morning.

But maybe it would be best to apologize.

Just in case he died.

Just in case she blamed herself for not being able to stop him.

* * *

 

He didn’t die.

But Connie did, and Sasha, and too many Garrison transfers whose names he hadn’t really taken the time to learn.

He noticed the missing places in the ranks where they were supposed to be: holes in the mess hall when they returned to the safety of their headquarters; empty bunks in the barracks.

They were all people with goals and high hopes for a better future, but their deaths had come despite that—had come easily. If it could happen to them, it could happen to him. And if it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone.

He’d never been blind to that fact.

It had just seemed, somehow, so very far away.

* * *

 

He dreamed of her often.

As if to mock his time in the Military Police and the dreams he’d had of her there, they usually started out as memories. Light and simple. Happy, even, with a look or a smile or just the feeling of companionship he’d felt when they’d spent evenings just reading together in the same room.

He dreaded them; he knew how they would end.

But like so many others he couldn’t wake himself up from those dreams.

He knew that Hitch wasn’t there. She was in Stohess, safe in the Military Police. She was safe and prosperous and secure: all of the things she’d wanted for herself and probably for him, too.

He knew that, but he always fell into those dreams, into the memories he had of her and into the fictitious events his mind made up to trick him into feeling safe and comfortable and in love—or even lust, sometimes.

He fell into them too hard and too fast and when they inevitably twisted as they always did…he was never ready for it.

Not so long ago he would have been delighted to hear Hitch offer to join the Survey Corps with him, but now the thought was horrifying. Now that thought was a part of his worst nights: dreams of her joining the Survey Corps—dreams of her dead on the streets of Shiganshina.

* * *

 

He didn’t send the letter.

He was afraid to, afraid she would read it and fall back into old habits: her strange, wonderful habit of coming back for him.

He selfishly wanted it—more than anything. Not only did he miss the general comfort of her presence, but also the sound of her voice and the particular shade of her eyes and the way her hair rested against her cheek. Little things. He wanted to have her back in his life—not a distant presence from his past.

But he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask for that in even the most indirect manner. Perhaps that was selfish of him, too, to be afraid for her when she was her own person: someone just as capable as he was.

But he worried anyway. Worried that if she knew he was sorry, if she knew that he thought rather highly of her, that he’d get her back, but only for a little while, for a fleeting moment. Not enough time. It would never be enough time.

So he didn’t send the letter.

He couldn’t risk her coming back for him.

Not this time. Not when he couldn’t handle the possibilities of what could happen to her if she did.

* * *

 

Hitch, as was her custom, did exactly what she wanted because she wanted to do it.

She showed up without any notice whatsoever, approached him in the mess hall, and leaned hard against him from behind, elbows digging into his shoulders. “Guess who?”

He knew her voice immediately and was embarrassed at how the sound of it affected him: heat in his belly spreading up, making his chest ache. As if it could ever be anyone but her.

“Hey, guess who?” she tried again when he didn’t answer right away; she practically sang the words at him.

Like nothing had ever happened between them. Like she’d gotten her furlough, something she’d talked about excitedly only a couple of months ago, and had taken it just to come and visit him.

He wanted to ask her a million questions: what was she doing and why were first and foremost in his mind, but as she squeezed into the space between him and Jean, the words died in his throat.

She wasn’t dressed for furlough.

She was in uniform.

The color blue was unsettling on her; it made him feel too many things at once.

“What happened to staying safe in the Military Police?” he asked, heart pressing staccato against his ribcage. If his voice sounded weak, it was because of that. He could even feel it in his throat.

She held his gaze for a moment before she reached under the table and took his hand. “You were right,” she said, and smiled. It wasn’t a strong smile: it was a brave smile. “Staying there wasn’t the right thing to do.”


End file.
